


Acquired Tastes

by Acchidocchi



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Depression, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, PTSD, Shikizaya, Shizaya - Freeform, Suicide Attempt, awakusu is a news network, celty has a head!, news anchor Izaya, oh ya the shikizaya is not the main focus, pastry chef shizuo, patissier Shizuo, shizaya endgame, shizuo is still very strong but not inhumanly so, this is my first time writing in years yall i am so sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28312671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acchidocchi/pseuds/Acchidocchi
Summary: "Hey, Shizu-chan," Izaya calls, daintily pressing his dessert spoon into his cup of coffee jelly.  He hums appreciatively at the bittersweet taste, licking the utensil clean.  "Did you know that chefs are ranked ninth?”Shizuo pauses in his work, halfway through decorating a birthday cheesecake with perfect little mounds of whipped cream, topped with candied strawberries.  It really makes no sense, Izaya thinks, looking at the blonde's superior craftsmanship, that a monster like Shizuo has such gentle hands, such an eye for artistry.“Ranked ninth for what?”Izaya smiles sweetly.  “Occupations most likely to attract psychopaths.”He tilts his head out of the way to dodge a berry that flies by his ear."Don't be mad, Shizu-chan!  Media personalities are ranked third!"- - - - - -In which:1. A drunken, one-sided love affair with his boss launches Izaya into a seemingly inescapable depression in its catastrophic aftermath.2. A demotion at work leads Izaya to Shizuo.3. Their less than auspicious reunion gives way to eventual healing.
Relationships: Heiwajima Shizuo/Orihara Izaya, Orihara Izaya/Shiki Haruya
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	Acquired Tastes

Izaya wakes up feeling dread. 

It’s present as soon as he rises in his empty bed, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The heaviness in his chest—that sinking fatigue that thrashes against the confines of his ribcage like a wounded animal—is so familiar that it amounts to little more than background noise at this point: a common, everyday nuisance that makes itself known in rare moments of quiet, only to be drowned out with the arrival of more pressing thoughts and tasks. In the quiet now it whispers to him, trying to coerce him back into bed. He shoulders through it, washing up in the bathroom before slipping out of the bedroom.

It’s 6:45. He turns on the TV and makes himself a large cup of black coffee. The noise and caffeine help him compartmentalize the anxiety and pack it away toward the back of his mind. He lets himself focus on Shinichi-san delivering the morning news. At 6:54, he takes his antidepressants; by 7 he’s downed his pain medication. 

_“Despite weather forecasts calling for a harsh downpour this afternoon, hundreds of Ikebukuro residents are planned to attend the city council’s press conference at 10 AM,”_ Shinichi says. His voice exudes professional confidence. 

_“The Department of the Interior will be addressing its slow response to the crumbling infrastructure of the commercial district despite sizeable lay-offs to construction staff last month. The press conference is scheduled to end by 11:30, though petitioners on behalf of the unemployed have officially stated their plans to meet privately with the department heads following its conclusion...”_

Izaya finishes his coffee. Puts the mug in the sink. Goes back to the bedroom to change his clothes but keeps the door open.

_“At noon today, the Tokyo Junior Symphony will be performing its forty-third annual concert at the Tokyo Metropolitan Theatre. Last-minute tickets are still available, and for a discounted price. All proceeds will be put toward funding public schools’ music education…”_

Dress shirt, suit, cufflinks. Red tie for today—Kasane is wearing blue, he remembers. After he puts his socks on and smooths out his slacks, he combs his hair. He looks presentable in the mirror, save for the darkness under his eyes, but makeup will fix it.

He grabs his coat before turning off the TV, cutting Shinichi off from further discussing economic uncertainty faced by the city’s food and retail businesses. _7:14,_ the screen flashes, before going black. 

He grabs his bag, takes his wallet and keys, and slips on his shoes. Quietly grabs his cane, turns the lights off. Locks the door when he leaves.

The air outside his apartment complex is chilly, the clouds bleakly inching across the sky, blotting out the sun that shines weakly against the wet asphalt. It’s already started to drizzle. Izaya opens his umbrella with his right hand, clutching his cane in his left, and makes sure to walk carefully over the slippery sidewalk. Barely anyone is out, so he takes his time.

He gets to the studio at around 7:45. He’s early. The lobby is already bustling with restless energy; he’s careful to avoid a group of nervous interns following one of the network's internet technicians around like confused ducklings, and casually skirts around the lounge area where some of his colleagues sit, going over the evening news cycle’s viewership ratings. 

Masaomi’s seated at the main reception desk, nodding off over a cold-looking cup of formerly hot chocolate. He looks half-dead, but to his credit, perks up with a false air of enthusiasm when Izaya approaches that would impress even a seasoned actor.

“Morning, Orihara-san!” His voice is a bit raspy. He starts shuffling through the mess of papers next to his keyboard in an effort to look somewhat busy. “It totally slipped my mind that you’re taking the late morning news now.”

Izaya lets his expression warp into something pleasant, saccharine. “Yes. Such a shame I had to leave Shinichi-kun all alone to carry the 6:30 broadcast… Not that it was particularly eventful. I’ll be sure to make it up to him tomorrow when I return.”

Masaomi pauses, looking a little confused. “Oh, right. It was just for today,” he says carefully. Then he gives Izaya his identification badge and key card, reaching over the desk.

Izaya accepts both. “Yes.” 

Masaomi nods, nothing else to say on that subject. He gestures to his phone. “I’ll call Shiki-san and let him know you’re here. Good luck up there.” He salutes Izaya.

“Thanks, Masaomi-kun. Have a good one.”

Izaya takes the elevator. He holds the door with a gentle smile for two female journalists who duck their heads shyly, thanking him, and for Kazamoto—one of the company’s PR executives, formerly an investigative journalist who’s gone soft with his transition into corporate comfort and lost his ruthless ambition that made him so well-known in the media half a decade ago. Kazamoto greets him idly, distracted by some messages on his phone. The two women get off on the third floor and he and Kazamoto get off on the eighth.

They walk down the hallway at a brisk pace in silence for a few moments. It’s quickly broken.

“Your legs bothering you, huh?” Kazamoto comments, though it’s more of a statement than a question. He gestures at Izaya’s cane, slipping his cell into his pocket. “You still need that thing to get around?”

Izaya forces a cheerful smile, tapping the end of the cane against the ground, then holding it up and giving it a little spin so the other man can see him stand without relying on it to carry his weight. “More of a precaution than anything. Especially when it’s raining.”

“Hm,” Kazamoto mumbles, less than impressed. “Good thing you’re sitting when the camera’s on you.” Then he pauses, reevaluating Izaya, face twisting with disdain. “You look like a mini-Akabayashi.”

“I heard my name,” the man himself calls, stepping out of the meeting room on their left. 

Izaya stiffens. Akabayashi’s presence always fills up the room; it’s not really physical, since he’s not incredibly imposing—tall, sure, but more lanky than stocky. It’s more his demeanor, that false calm he exudes, that has Izaya on edge. Akabayashi’s less than savory past is no secret; he used to work as a bigwig for some barely-legal financial company infamous for its violent repercussions against those who defaulted on their subprime mortgages. About a decade ago, Dougen Awakusu personally scouted Akabayashi to handle Awakusu Broadcasting’s financial department. 

_From criminal to accountant,_ Izaya muses to himself. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, mini-me,” Akabayashi replies, spinning his cane. Kazamoto’s face colors, and he grumbles an unintelligible excuse, pulling his phone out again and busying himself with his messages. He slips away into the next meeting room, mumbling a half-hearted goodbye. Akabayashi pays him no mind.

“How inconsiderate the able-bodied can be, Izaya-kun,” Akabayashi whispers conspiratorially. “I hope you aren’t offended by Takaaki’s rudeness. On his behalf, I apologize.”

“No need to apologize. No harm done,” Izaya replies coolly. It’s time to change the subject. “What are you doing in the studio so early? I wasn’t aware auditing needed to be done before 8 AM.”

Akabayashi laughs heartily. “I like to drop in when my department isn’t expecting me, just to make sure no one’s slacking off. But we did have a meeting with the executive board today. Quarterly updates and the like.”

“Hm. I hope all is well behind the scenes,” Izaya offers.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. It’s our job to worry about the boring parts of the business. You just have to look nice and deliver the news,” Akabayashi says. It’s condescending in a way that Izaya quietly resents, though he knows the man speaks to everyone like this. “You switched to the 10 AM, huh?”

“Just for today,” Izaya replies, arching an eyebrow. 

Akabayashi smirks a little, like he knows something Izaya doesn’t. “Mmm, I see.” Then he adds, as if letting Izaya in on a secret, “Haruya’s worried about your health, you know. He thinks you need more sleep. Maybe keeping to the 10 AM would be better for you.”

Izaya grinds his teeth as he puts on his best smile, even though he knows it won’t fool Akabayashi. He’s gripping the top of his cane so hard he feels his knuckles going white. “How considerate of Shiki,” he chirps. “I’ll have to let him know I’m feeling better than ever, and I don’t plan on being rescheduled anytime soon.”

“Indeed. How would Shinichi-kun cope without you?” Akabayashi laughs, and points at the conference room on their right. Izaya recognizes the two people sitting at the table in the room—an auditor and financial strategist, both of them Akabayashi’s men. They perk up at the sight of their boss. 

“I’m off to another meeting,” Akabayashi says pleasantly, taking off his glasses and tucking them into his lapel. He stares Izaya down with his good eye, as if considering him. Then he flashes another languid grin. “Work never stops, though I’m sure you know that well enough. Have a good day, Izaya-kun.”

“Thank you, Akabayashi-san,” Izaya returns smoothly. “You too.”

As soon as Akabayashi turns away, Izaya quickens his pace, ducking into the newsroom at the end of the hall. The chatter of the camera crew and directors, the noise from interns ducking back and forth, all of it forms a familiar cacophony of sound that allows him to sort out his thoughts, pushing the anxiety to the back of his mind again.

_Breathe,_ he reminds himself. He allows himself a moment to recover, to push away the implications of Akabayashi’s casual conversation, and then gathers himself back together again. 

“Good morning, Orihara-san,” one of the stylists greets him. Izaya turns to face her, returning the pleasantries, and catches a glimpse of Kasane Kujiragi sitting behind her. One of the other stylists is busy fixing Kasane’s makeup. Kasane raises a hand in greeting and Izaya reciprocates before taking a seat a few feet away from her.

“You remembered to wear red. I’m impressed,” Kasane says, once her stylist has finished perfecting her contour. She’s dressed in a powder blue dress, her hair tied back with a gold ribbon. On any other woman her age the ensemble would look a bit childish, but Kasane makes it look sharp, professional. The network had asked him to wear a different color for contrast. 

Izaya hums in response. “You’re lucky red is my color anyway.”

Another stylist approaches him with a timid ‘good morning’ and presses a wand of concealer under his right eye, blending it out with a cushion and then setting it with powder. Kasane watches, almost owlishly.

“Did you get any sleep?” She asks, her expression impressively blank. Izaya is both disturbed and jealous that she and Shinichi-kun seem to have mastered the art of the poker face. “Kind of defeats the purpose of Shiki-san rescheduling you if you don’t get any more rest.”

There’s no point lying to her, seeing how much makeup is going into covering up his dark circles, but he resents the mention of Shiki’s name. “I slept fine, thank you,” Izaya replies. The stylist moves to apply concealer to the left side of his face. “And the rescheduling is only temporary.”

“Hm,” Kasane hums, incredulous, but not caring enough to press it. “I’m going to get some coffee. Do you want a cup?”

He swallows his pride for a second. “Please.”

By the time Izaya’s makeup is done, Kasane has returned with two steaming mugs, handing one to him. She also offers him cream and sugar, but he politely declines. He waits for his coffee to cool before taking a sip and finds that it’s not as strong as the cup he made at home.

Izaya’s so fixated on his caffeine that he doesn’t notice Shinichi approaching them from across the room until the other anchor is suddenly standing beside their makeup station. Shinichi’s just finished the 6:30 broadcast, Izaya realizes; the other man has taken off his blazer and swapped his contacts for glasses, looking remarkably more relaxed than he appeared on TV. It’s a bit unsettling—Izaya should have been there, should have also been finished with work right about now. 

Shinichi greets them both. “Morning.” 

Izaya scowls into his cup. Shinichi notices his foul mood, and his lazy smile quickly warps into one of amusement. “Missed you today, Izaya.”

“Thanks,” Izaya mutters over the rim of his cup, refusing to meet his eyes. He spins the silver ring he wears on his right hand with his thumb idly, feeling it rub against the handle of his mug. “I watched you while I was getting ready this morning, but I don’t think I missed out on much.”

Shinichi looks pleased, in his usual dry, expressionless way. “No, you didn’t.”

Kasane puts her coffee down—not that it can be called coffee anymore, with all that cream and sugar, Izaya thinks to himself. “Shinichi-kun, I was just talking to Izaya about Shiki-san rescheduling him to my broadcasting time,” Kasane says slyly. “I for one welcome the extra help, but won’t you miss having him keep you company every day? I’ll feel bad if I steal him from you.”

“Ah, yes,” Shinichi intones, peering down at Izaya through his glasses with a very punchable smirk on his face. Izaya forces himself to meet his colleague’s gaze. “Whatever will I do with my partner in crime? I’ll never forgive you, Kasane-chan.”

Izaya scoffs over the sound of Kasane’s laughter, already feeling his ears begin to redden, his face growing warm with indignation. “Like I said before—I was rescheduled temporarily,” he protests. “Who’s been spreading this rumor?”

Kasane shrugs, avoiding his accusatory glare.

Shinichi dismisses him. “What does it matter who says it when it’s true? You should just feel honored that the big boss cares so much about your health that he’s willing to move everyone else around to accommodate you,” he chides. “Say, wasn’t it Shiki-san who recruited you into Awakusu?”

Izaya sneers. Shinichi’s wrong; it was Kine who offered him the job, and he retired last year. But he doesn’t bother correcting him, shooting Shinichi’s words back: “what does it matter?”

Shinichi offers a dry smile, looking delighted that he’s managed to rile his colleague up. “No need to get punchy, Izaya-kun. Just making friendly conversation.”

Kasane fixes her lipstick in the mirror, pursing her lips. “Don’t make him too angry before we go on air. The viewers will miss his pretty smile.”

“Right you are,” Shinichi yields, raising his hands in mock surrender. He nods in the direction of the exit. “Well—I’m off to do some field work with the crew. We’re interviewing the head of the Interior Department before their press conference.” 

Izaya makes a derisive noise at the back of his throat, which only deepens Shinichi’s amused smile. “I’ll be sure to bring back an excellent report for you to regurgitate before the cameras tomorrow morning, Izaya-kun. Have a good show.”

“Good luck. Stay dry,” Kasane chimes.

“Don’t die of boredom,” Izaya says sweetly. 

“You two are cute,” Kasane says, once Shinichi’s left the room. She crosses her legs and leans back into her chair, cocking her head curiously at Izaya. “You’ve been broadcast partners for what… two years? Yet you still can’t stand him for more than five minutes.”

“We get along just fine,” Izaya replies, not that he’s fooling anyone. 

He and Shinichi have been working together for too long; their personalities are quite dissimilar, but their interests overlap enough to create an uncomfortable rivalry. Shinichi gets around, is pretty active in the community, can pretend he has emotions and is interested in people’s lives enough to pick up interesting stories and get to the bottom of the city’s secrets with such efficiency it often makes Izaya jealous, especially considering his limited contributions to daily reports in the past six months. Izaya likes to think if he had the energy, they’d be evenly matched, but most days now—even when Shinichi is working on the most banal political stories—he can’t be quite sure.

Back when they’d first started working together, Izaya had initially had the upper hand. On the corporate side of work, he’d enjoyed both Shiki and Kine’s obvious favoritism, which frequently translated into being tasked with the greatest reporting responsibilities—political scandals, criminal activity, underground and counterculture movements—stories with high risks and hurdles but equally high returns. On the practical side of work, he possessed exactly what was needed to get his work done: a silver tongue, an inimitable charisma, and, quite honestly, an unusually pretty face that made even the most reticent citizens of Ikebukuro willing to sing their stories from the rooftops and shower him and the network with praise over his journalism skills. Plus, the cane—back when Izaya really needed to use it to get around, not just as a precaution—also garnered well-intentioned sympathy that bolstered his investigative efforts. 

Shinichi, on the other hand, is less flashy in his talents, but has always enjoyed the advantage of experience over Izaya. Shinichi has maybe four years of seniority in the media industry, and as a result, has a more established network of connections. Izaya would return to the studio, interviews transcribed and written reports already edited only to find Shinichi one if not several steps ahead of him, with yet unpublished statistics from friendly bureaucrats and official documentation from established and airtight sources. Over time, Izaya’s flashy work—personal interviews, case studies, undercover reporting—became dependent on Shinichi’s supplemental research and focus on the facts. Six months ago, after Izaya was incapacitated, Shinichi usurped the other’s media superiority and took on the tasks that were once considered Izaya’s territory.

As if reading Izaya’s mind, Kasane asks, “when was the last time you went out to cover a story, anyway?” Her verbal jabs are blunt but persistent, Izaya notes, as if she’s probing around in the dark, testing different targets on his body to see if she can find a vulnerable spot. “I’ve heard Shinichi-kun does most of the work these days, and you just read whatever reports he gives you. Must be nice, just sitting in front of the camera and looking pretty.”

Izaya doesn’t give her the satisfaction she wants. “Shinichi-kun has been kind enough to pick up some of my duties since my health worsened. I’m still recovering, unfortunately, so I’ve been taking a break on field reporting.”

Kasane’s lips quirk into a curious smile. Her crimson lipstick makes her expression predatory. “My apologies for prying into such a sensitive topic. _If_ Shiki-san ends up moving you to my broadcasting time, I’d be happy to support you as Shinichi-kun has.”

Izaya smiles, all teeth. “I’ll hold you to it, Kasane-chan.”

Before she can say anything else, Izaya takes out his phone, cutting off the conversation. He tries to make himself look busy, but ends up distracting himself by scrolling through social media, feeling the rush of dread from earlier this morning begin to climb its way up from his stomach and into his ribcage. He’s halfway through his feed, trying to blot out the anxiety with any kind of visual distraction, when he finds something that works: a picture from Mairu’s account, a snapshot of Kururi at some café, eating a donut. Her expression is as calm and serious as ever despite the powdered sugar dusted across her nose. Mairu’s hand—a blurry peace sign—sticks out from the corner of the frame. The caption reads, _after school snack! Stream Yuuhei’s newest album or else don’t you dare coming to school tomorrow! WE MEAN IT!_

Izaya takes a deep breath in and a deep breath out. The dark feeling resides.

“Orihara-san,” the stylist from earlier interrupts him, though he’s feeling a bit better already. He offers her a smile, and she returns it shyly. Then she gestures to where the camera crew is set up, their director waiting patiently, waving at him. “They’re ready for you.”

Izaya takes his usual seat behind the news room table, tucking his cane in under the table, leaning it against his left thigh. Kasane sits in Shinichi’s spot. 

The lights in the studio go up as soon as they’re settled; the camera crew starts adjusting their angles, double checking their cue cards and the graphics they’ve loaded up in the weather room next door. Izaya flips through the notes Kasane and the 10 AM crew have prepared for him. Easy stuff—stories contingent on the basics he and Shinichi covered a few days ago, along with some newer but equally bland stories, with familiar names and topics. He gives the notes a once-over despite having reviewed them the night before.

“Quiet on set,” Niekawa calls. The director looks to Izaya and Kasane for a second. They both nod at him. A hush falls over the room as the camera men position their equipment on the two anchors. The interns stop rushing about the room, quietly settling, and the stylists take their seats. 

Niekawa holds up a hand and counts down from five. The cameras blink red. 

Exactly on cue, Kasane’s face lights up with bright cheer, as sudden and striking as a splash of golden paint on a blank white canvas. Izaya follows suit, a smile spreading from ear to ear, friendly but artificial sweetness shining into his carmine eyes. He forces himself to unclench his fist, releasing his cane from his possessive grasp.

“Good morning, Ikebukuro,” Kasane opens, voice light with goodwill. “I’m Kujiragi Kasane, reporting for Awakusu’s 10 AM broadcast, with Orihara-san joining me today in the studio.” 

The camera pans over to Izaya. He waves, staring his reflection back down in the lens, breaking eye contact only when the camera turns back to Kasane. 

A media veteran through and through, Kasane dives into her late morning recap on the small-scale stories Shinichi covered just a few hours ago, reiterating the general points and refreshing the audience’s memory on their smaller details. Izaya has to admit, she’s good at what she does. She’s a bit more engaging than Shinichi—who is actually quite a good speaker despite his awful personality—and the way she talks and carries herself demands the attention of everyone in the room.

Kasane passes the baton off cleanly to Izaya. He reminds himself he needs to match her energy. “The Tokyo Junior Symphony’s forty-third annual concert at the Tokyo Metropolitan Theatre sold out just minutes ago,” he says, voice warm. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, but forces himself to watch his reflection—making sure his mouth moves just the right way, his posture is perfectly straight, his expression is perfectly friendly. “For those who missed their chance to buy discounted tickets, this afternoon’s performance will be recorded. Copies will be sold in both digital and physical form with proceeds donated to public schools’ music education.”

Kasane smiles widely. “What a talented group, using their gifts to give back to the community. I wasn’t involved in anything so impressive when I was a student. Were you, Orihara-san?” 

Izaya beams at the camera. “Oh, certainly not. I couldn’t play an instrument to save my life, Kujiragi-san.” It’s a lie, of course. The piano in his flat is evidence. But half of his job is unfortunately banalities like these, so he presses on to embellish the subjects of the story. “These students must be excited about continuing their careers in the arts, no?”

Kasane responds perfectly. “Exactly right. Many of the students performing today mentioned their interests in continuing musical endeavors and one day auditioning for the Tokyo Symphony. Niekawa Haruna-san is with these young musicians right now. Niekawa-san?”

On cue, the red blinking lights on the cameras turn off. The TV screen slated against the wall behind the camera crew flashes, and Haruna’s face appears. She’s at the Metropolitan Theatre, and begins introducing the most talented high school students she’s no doubt scouted from the orchestra for the audience.

Niekawa—not only the director, but Haruna’s father—gives Izaya and Kasane a thumbs up. Izaya relaxes a bit into his chair, takes his eyes off the camera lens.

It’s at that moment that Izaya sees him out of the corner of his eye: white suit, dark undershirt, and a tall, imposing figure. Izaya would recognize that posture, that frame, anywhere; it’s Shiki standing in the doorway. Izaya can feel Shiki’s gaze burning into him from across the room, and clutches his cane under the desk before he can help himself.

Kasane spares a furtive glance his way. The sharp heel of her shoe pokes him in the ankle, and he snaps back to attention. 

_Already?_

Haruna chatters away on screen, brushing her dark hair behind her ears. Her dainty hand rests on the shoulder of a young girl with glasses—one of the high school performers, who nervously clutches her viola. “Thank you for your time, Sonohara-san. I’m looking forward to hearing you and your friends play in just a few hours!” Haruna chirps enthusiastically. “Back to you, Kujiragi-san, Orihara-san!”

Niekawa gives them the signal. The cameras flash red.

“They definitely have bright futures ahead of them,” Izaya says sweetly. He smiles so hard his cheeks begin to hurt. Shiki’s gaze only makes his muscles strain harder. “In other news, the two finalists for the bi-annual Tokyo Young Novelists’ ‘New Author of the Year’ Award have been announced. Yumasaki Walker and Karisawa Erika, both Ikebukuro natives, were nominated by the association for their independent works…”

The words spill out of him on autopilot, as if he’s just a puppet acting out his master’s commands. _Enunciate clearly_ —emphasize the names, the awards, the organizations, the book titles, the dates—raise the intonation at the end. _Express emotion_ ; be excited, be impressed, be confident. _Laugh at Kasane’s shitty joke_. He doesn’t even have to think about it, it’s all so second-nature. Shiki’s hawkish eyes pin him down and he feels like a butterfly taped to a corkboard, ready to be stripped of its wings and hoisted onto a glass stand for display.

“Yumasaki-san and Karisawa-san are actually close childhood friends who share a love of writing,” Kasane says, interrupting his gruesome thoughts. The screen on the wall begins cycling through pictures of the two authors. Kasane gestures to one photo of a joint book signing event, Yumasaki’s arm thrown around Karisawa, both of them beaming. “Although they’re rivals in their craft, they’ve also collaborated with one another to help develop their works. Isn’t that amazing?”

Izaya forces his face to light up as if he’s amazed. “Yes. They’re only 25, but have both published four novels already. Have you read any of their books, Kujiragi-san?”

“Oh, only one of Karisawa’s,” Kasane responds. “But I’m not a huge fan of mysteries or crime, so I didn’t finish it. I lent it to my niece, though, and she absolutely loved it.” Kasane tilts her head. “Perhaps if Karisawa-san puts out a romance or drama, I might keep that one for myself.”

Izaya laughs even though it’s one of the worst bits he’s ever heard. “You do that. But send the mystery my way if your niece returns it. I’d love to give it a read.”

Izaya continues for the rest of the two hours they’ve been allotted, covering small stories that no one really cares about: a new shopping mall in the poorer side of the city (gentrification, how lovely); the merger between two local cable companies that’s raised anti-trust lawsuits; the newest confection dreamed up by Glico in anticipation of next White Day, so on and so forth. He and Kasane weave in their terrible small talk and boring jokes, faking laughs, posturing as old friends who have absolutely nothing in common but can’t seem to end their conversation.

It’s a relief when Niekawa gives them the signal. 

“That’s all we have to share with you for the 10 AM today,” Izaya concludes, face aching. His fingers rub over the top of his cane restlessly. 

“Thank you for tuning in to Awakusu Broadcasting,” Kasane says sweetly. If Izaya didn’t know her in real life, he’d have been convinced she was genuine. “It’s been a pleasure, especially with Orihara-san to keep us company.”

Izaya makes a sound of mirth. “Thank you for having me, Kujiragi-san.” He turns to face the camera and speak to the audience, but his eyes meet Shiki’s instead of his reflection. He can’t help himself. “I’ll be seeing you all on the 6:30 AM broadcast soon.”

Shiki’s eyes narrow. Contrastingly, Kasane’s eyes widen, and for a second she almost looks frantic, but quickly wipes any surprise from her face, recovering gracefully. “Live from Ikebukuro, this was Kasane Kujiragi and Orihara Izaya for Awakusu’s 10 AM broadcast. See you all tonight for the evening news.”

The cameras click off. The TV screen on the wall begins to sing their outro, a familiar, happy jingle. Niekawa calls out, “it’s a wrap!”, and the studio livens up once again, the collective breath held slowly released. Everyone starts moving, prepping for the evening news set.

Kasane turns to him, her false air of pleasantry gone. Her eyes shine with a calm curiosity and her mouth quirks up with interest. “You’re pretty gutsy. Even though you’re Shiki-san’s pet, I really don’t think he’ll let you get away with that.”

Izaya looks her in the eyes and smiles, flashing his teeth. He moves his cane to his right hand on the side she can’t see, clutching the handle so tightly his knuckles pale. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Kasane-chan,” he says. “I’ll be looking forward to watching your broadcast tomorrow from home.”

“We’ll see,” Kasane says, but he’s turned and fled before she finishes her thought.

One of the stylists approaches Izaya shyly, offering him a glass of water and a makeup wipe, unknowingly blocking off his access to the exit. Despite his foul mood, he can’t hold it against her. “Thank you, but I’m all right.” 

The girl withers a bit, but quickly recovers. By her hopeful expression, she’s going to do one of two things—offer him words of encouragement or ask him out to lunch—and Izaya doesn’t have enough patience for that. He makes eye contact with Shiki over the stylist’s shoulders; the executive is approaching, stalking him down with the determination of a predator set on its next meal. “Excuse me,” Izaya says, and slips away before she can gather her courage to take the plunge.

“Izaya,” Shiki states. It’s not a greeting. The studio lights are harsh against his countenance, highlighting his sharp cheekbones and casting dark shadows under his brow over his narrowed eyes. His white suit is spotless.

“Shiki,” Izaya returns, just as little mirth in his voice. 

Without a word, they walk off of the set, out of the spotlight. He can feel curious eyes follow them. The rumors that he’s Shiki’s pet, in whatever sense of the word, no doubt has some basis of truth, given how quickly they fall into step with one another and how easily and clearly they can communicate without needing to speak. The gossip will be especially pronounced tomorrow morning. 

Shiki’s face becomes gentle once the harsh lights of the news room fizzle away. The executive waits patiently for Izaya to grab his bag and umbrella, balancing them in his right arm and clutching his cane in his left hand. 

Only after they’ve exited the newsroom does Shiki break the silence. “You must be hungry, Izaya. Have lunch with me.” 

It’s not a request. Izaya knows it. So he follows Shiki down the hall, into the elevator, and through the lobby. 

“Can you walk, or would you rather we drive?” Shiki asks, without having to gesture toward Izaya’s cane. 

“I’m can walk. I just brought it along in case it rained any harder,” Izaya replies. He’s getting tired of explaining himself. 

Shiki thankfully takes his word for it. As they leave the building, Masaomi waves at them from the reception desk, looking significantly better than two hours ago. Izaya doesn’t have the energy to reciprocate. Shiki opens a large black umbrella and holds it over both of their heads, and gradually slows his own gait, careful to match Izaya’s pace. Izaya refuses to acknowledge the courtesy.

The shopping district—just two blocks away from the studio—is quiet, curled in on itself due to the bad weather. The boutiques that line the outer street have closed their doors and brought in their racks of discounted clothing; the elegant restaurants, usually bustling with customers, have raised their shades to protect their empty outdoor seating areas from the downpour. A few people—some waitstaff on break, some salarymen rushing to their next meetings, a woman and two young children doing grocery shopping—pass them by. Their eyes drift toward Izaya, recognition lighting across their faces. But none of them say anything.

Shiki slows down halfway through their walk, and gestures to a rather large café across the street. It’s new, Izaya muses; he recalls seeing it on his way to work a few weeks ago, just after it opened its doors to the public for the first time. It’s cozy-looking, softly lit by hazy yellow lights, a variety of pastries and breads on display before fancy indoor seating. The walls are decorated with an assortment of flowers that hang from suspended glass pottery. 

_Deux Villes’ Patisserie and Boulangerie,_ the sign reads. 

Izaya smell something sugary sweet, and can’t help but wrinkle his nose. 

Shiki assures him, “I came here a few days ago with Akane for brunch. They make good comfort food, not just desserts." Then, his tone almost pleading, he says, "you’ll like it.” 

The words take the edge off of Izaya’s sour mood for just a second. He looks up at Shiki, whose face is as stoic as ever; but he can see genuine kindness reflected in the executive’s dark eyes. There’s worry there. There’s a gentle softness to his mouth, which frowns tentatively, waiting for Izaya’s response. 

Izaya studies the other man’s expression, judging his intentions. The last time he ate was yesterday afternoon. He wonders how much else Shiki knows about how his life is falling apart, wonders if his boss is somehow aware that the last time he’d gotten a full night’s sleep was two months ago, that the last time he’d visited the twins or even picked up a call from them was all the way back in August, that the last appointment with his therapist he’d actually attended instead of cancelling last minute was even further back.

The umbrella Shiki holds over them drips, and drips, and drips. It’s cold and the rain refuses to relent. But Shiki is nothing if not a patient man.

“Okay,” Izaya agrees.

And so, Shiki leads him to the café; opens the door for him, closes up the umbrella, and follows him inside. _Warm,_ is Izaya’s first thought, glancing at the heater humming in the corner of the shop. The air smells like flowers and freshly baked bread. 

The café is empty save for one young woman, startlingly pale and blonde with odd lavender eyes, who stands behind the counter. She’s wearing a mint-green apron, busy moving a tray of pastries into the glass display until the sound of Shiki closing the door catches her attention.

“Welcome,” she says, putting the tray down. Her voice, soft and tranquil, matches her blank expression. Izaya wonders why it is that so many of his acquaintances are emotionally deficit. “Eating in today?”

Shiki nods, holding up two fingers.

She gestures to the empty seats. “Sit wherever you like. I’ll be right with you.”

They end up at a small table in the corner of the café right next to the heater, both of them sitting parallel to the window pane, which thrums and vibrates under the force of the downpour. Izaya watches the raindrops race down the glass for a few minutes, pressing his cheek into his palm, and Shiki checks his phone. The cashier comes and hands them two menus.

“Anything to drink?” Izaya catches a glimpse of her name tag. _Vorona._

Shiki orders a coffee and Izaya absent-mindedly skims their drinks menu. “Oolong, please.”

Vorona returns with their drinks in a few minutes, once they’ve had time to peruse the menu. _Deux Villes,_ Izaya muses to himself, most likely refers to the equal partition of culinary choices between yoshoku and washoku. Shiki orders a salad. Izaya gives into his childish side and asks for an omelet rice.

Shiki puts his phone away once Vorona leaves. “Izaya,” he starts.

Izaya takes a sip of his hot tea, gazing up at the other man from under his eyelashes.

“I want to apologize first and foremost for the rumors you’ve been hearing from everyone but me,” Shiki says. There it is—that odd, unexpected sense of honor Shiki has, a moral code that goes beyond professionalism, ill-fittingly serious for a man whose work revolves around daytime television and corporate negotiations. “I promise you, I’d only spoken of my thoughts on your work to the executives at this morning’s meeting. I will be speaking with Mizuki and Takaaki soon to remind them that anything less than absolute confidentiality is unacceptable.”

Izaya considers Shiki’s apology, feels irritated enough to throw it back in his face. “Even Masaomi, the reception boy, knew,” he muses, no humor in his voice. “Kasane and Shinichi had their fun rubbing it in my face, too.”

Shiki’s brow furrows. “I’ll speak with them as well.”

“No,” Izaya snaps, “they already think I’m your pet. Coddling me like I’m a child, then punishing them for talking about it—that’s not a very strong counterpoint against their assumptions.” He clenches his teacup. “I don’t need your paternalism.”

“That’s not what this is, Izaya. It’s business." Shiki's voice is low, his expression stern. "Kine may have been your father figure, but when he retired, he transferred only your employment to me, not his custody over you. I won’t do you the insult of acting like your parent.”

Izaya makes a noise in the back of his throat, looking out the window, trying to avoid what he assumes is Shiki’s furious expression. But Izaya catches a glimpse of Shiki’s reflection in the window and deflates a little. The other man is not mad. But he is disappointed.

“How’s Chihaya?” Izaya asks, his eyes sliding down to Shiki’s wedding band. It’s a low blow, but the subject needs to change, or he’ll suffocate.

“She’s fine,” Shiki responds easily. “How’s Dr. Yagiri?”

_Ouch._ Izaya fidgets a little, tries to smile as if the question hasn’t taken him by surprise, but misses the mark by a mile, offering a shaky upward quirk of his lips instead. “Namie is doing well. She’s just as warm-hearted and lovely as usual; always a pleasure seeing her every week,” he lies. “She says we’re making good progress.”

“Are you, now,” Shiki says. It’s not even a question.

Vorona interrupts them with their orders, much to Izaya’s gratitude, because he frankly has no idea what else he can say. The food smells good. The coffee that sits in his stomach, the pure, unadulterated caffeine that’s been giving him energy for the past five hours, is suddenly insufficient. They say their graces and he picks up his spoon, scooping up a bite of omelet and fried rice. The little bear the cook drew on the eggs with ketchup loses its left ear.

He can’t help the little noise of appreciation that escapes him, and concedes. “You were right. Their food _is_ good.”

Shiki seems a bit comforted at seeing Izaya’s appetite, and lets him eat half of his meal undisturbed before returning back to their conversation. “Izaya,” he says firmly. “What kind of progress have you made with Yagiri?”

Izaya takes a sip of his tea to give himself some time to think. “Namie and I talked about healthy coping mechanisms,” he recalls. It’s the truth—they did talk about it the last time they had met, but that was in late July, nearly four months ago. “She gave me an activity log, had me try out some healthy and ‘stimulating’ hobbies, record how long I spent doing them. She was very impressed with my results.”

“Was she, now. What did she have you do?”

“Running, reading, painting, playing the piano,” Izaya answers. He takes another bite of his food. Chews. Swallows. Repeats. “We’ve done away with all the bad coping mechanisms,” he lies easily, but then, because he feels a little shadow of guilt at the worry evident on Shiki’s face, adds on a smidge of truth. “I haven’t had a drink since July. I quit smoking, too.”

Shiki considers this. Izaya is a great liar, but Shiki’s spent years watching his anchors falsify warmth and kindness for the cameras. “And how is everything going with Dr. Kishitani?”

Izaya clicks his tongue, chasing the last bite of rice across his plate. “No doctor-patient confidentiality?”

Shiki puts his fork down over his plate. “Humor me.”

Izaya sighs. “Shinra’s doing well, having a grand old time with his fiancée. Not sure why he’s even seeing me, considering he’s a surgeon, not a general physician.”

Shiki doesn’t smile. “He’s the one who saved your life. He knows your condition best.”

“Well, he probably has better things to do, more pressing patients who need cutting open.”

“Izaya,” Shiki says lowly.

“Right, right,” Izaya hums. The anxiety is back; his left hand is shaking. He puts the spoon down, clutches his cane at his hip to keep his left side occupied and clenches his right hand into a fist to keep from drumming his fingers against the table. “Shinra says we’re doing fine. He’s weaning me off the painkillers. I’ll be off of the strongest ones by the end of this month.” That’s not a lie, at least.

“And your legs?” Shiki asks. 

“Like I told you—they’re fine. I just take the cane around as a precaution,” Izaya reiterates, trying to keep the irritation from his voice. He fails spectacularly when his tone begins to steep into anger. “Namie and Shinra both said it’s mostly psychosomatic, anyway. The problem isn’t my spine, it’s my brain. And we can only fix that so quickly, Shiki.”

The executive leans back in his chair, as if digesting everything Izaya’s said. Izaya busies himself with finishing his tea, trying to will the dread to leave his stomach, chase the chills away from his trembling hands. _Distractions,_ Izaya reminds himself. The tea is bitter, very bitter. _Focus on that._

And just as Izaya’s closed off his senses to focus on the warmth in his teacup, just as he’s pushed the dark feelings to the back of his mind, Shiki shows his trump card. “I met with Yagiri yesterday evening.”

And then the veneer of tranquility is slipping through his fingers like water. He’s left scrambling for a second, as if suspended in midair, trying to close his fists around the last drops of peace that are so cruelly fleeting from his fingertips. Izaya knows he looks pathetic—can practically see himself gaping and horrified, trembling as if he’s just been gutted—but he can’t mend his expression, can’t conceal the terror that flashes through his eyes. 

And Shiki twists the knife into his stomach, looking pained but determined, as if he wants to rip off the bandage all at once but not understanding it’ll leave Izaya bleeding out. “We ran into each other at an interview the station conducted for Yagiri Pharmaceuticals. I asked her if you were doing well and she told me you’ve cancelled every weekly appointment since July, and you haven’t been answering her secretary’s phone calls.” Then, he adds quietly, “she legitimately asked me if you tried to off yourself again. She thought you may have succeeded.” 

When Izaya doesn’t respond, Shiki continues. His voice is gentle in contrast to the evidence he presents. “I called Shinra to make sure you were at least going to your medical appointments. I had to press him, but seeing as it was a matter of your safety, he caved. You’re not sleeping. You’ve been losing weight, haven’t been eating, haven’t been doing your physical therapy. It’s like you’ve given up on yourself.”

Then comes the final blow, a desperate, but exasperated plea. “God, Izaya. How can we help you? What can any of us do?”

Izaya understands, he hears it—the genuine concern in Shiki's voice, something that goes beyond professional courtesy, something raw and honest and pained. But his indignation, his wounded pride, and the terrible ugliness of his ego win out.

“You had no right. You _have_ no right, getting into my personal business like this.” It’s not the right response, not by a longshot, but the words are tumbling out of his mouth and he can’t do anything to stop them, can only helplessly hiss out his grievances as they gain momentum, snowballing into greater anger and humiliation. “You say you’re my boss, not my parent, but you keep pulling shit like this. What kind of boss calls his employee’s doctor to ask about his health? Or his therapist, for that matter?”

“Your wellbeing, or lack thereof, affects my business,” Shiki counters.

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Izaya spits, nearly hysterical. “You didn’t go sniffing around Akabayashi’s home life when his wife died. You didn’t send him to therapy. When Kasane’s sister killed herself, you sent her a condolence card and went on your merry way.”

Shiki’s expression is slowly edging into something less exasperated, something more frustrated. “Izaya,” he warns. 

“No,” Izaya exhales. He feels the weight of lavender eyes boring into his side from the direction of the cash register, and has to physically force himself to let go of some of the tension in his hands and shoulders so he doesn’t explode and get them kicked out of the cafe. “You’re my boss. Not my parent, not,” he pauses, voice strained. He accidentally looks at Shiki’s wedding band and curses himself for doing it, clenching his fists so hard little half-moons form in the flesh of his palms. “Not anything but my boss. I’m tired of you conveniently forgetting that’s the case.”

“As your boss, then, I’ve come to the following decision with the rest of the executive board,” Shiki says, and despite Izaya’s bitter remarks, there’s no spite or nastiness to his words, just tired concern. “You’re taking the rest of this week off, and starting next Monday, you’re going to be rescheduled to the 7 and 10 PM news cycles.”

“What?” The disbelief is immediate.

“7 and 10 PM,” Shiki repeats. "Today's rescheduling was a test run. Obviously, the 10 AM broadcast wasn't enough of an improvement."

Indignation follows swiftly, horror creeping into his eyes. Izaya exhales shakily. “You can’t. The evening news cycle is… it’s…”

“Exactly what you need,” Shiki finishes firmly. “The competitive environment of the morning broadcast is exactly what you should be avoiding right now. Like you said, Shinichi and Kasane hardly qualify as supportive coworkers—you’ll do much better working with Kyouhei.” 

“Shiki, I don’t care about Shinichi or Kasane. I’ve worked early mornings for four years now,” Izaya argues. He knows he sounds desperate, but at this point he couldn’t care less. “I’ve given Awakusu some of its greatest stories—I’ve broken major headlines because I was able to show face at 6 and use the rest of the day to do field work. I helped build this network up, and you want to sideline me to the end of the day? Where all I’ll be doing is recaps and half-baked feel-good stories no one cares about?” The reality of the situation is simply that this is as good as an industry death sentence. Izaya buries his head in his hands. 

Shiki asserts: “you haven’t brought in a report of your own in over six months.” Izaya winces in the refuge of his arms, covering his face to conceal just how badly that hurt. Shiki continues. “I’m not the one killing your career. You are.”

“That’s,” Izaya starts hopelessly. Shiki holds up a hand to silence him.

“You’ll be required to check in to the studio by 4PM every day,” Shiki explains. “That will give you the late morning and early afternoon to schedule interviews or cover any events you’re interested in reporting on. You’ll come in at 4, get your notes ready with Niekawa and Kyouhei, and meet with the other field reporters at 5. Hair and makeup by 6, then the 7 to 9 PM broadcast. You get an hour break, and then take the 10 to 11 PM.”

“This is what is best for you, both professionally and personally. You’ll be able to get more rest, make your afternoon appointments with Yagiri, and slowly transition back into field work without Shinichi antagonizing you,” Shiki tells him. 

The finality of Shiki’s voice is what makes everything painfully real. 

Izaya swallows, choking down protests he knows will only make him sound like a child.

“Yes,” he confirms, his voice nearly breaking. Shiki’s gaze softens.

“I won’t do you the disservice of lying to you,” Shiki says, and his voice is quieter. “You’re right in that I’ve overstepped many professional boundaries by finding you a therapist, by speaking with Yagiri and Kishitani about your health. I pick and choose which rules to follow and which to ignore, and for my hypocrisy, I am sorry.” 

“But I won’t apologize, Izaya, for overstepping boundaries out of concern for your safety. This is as much a professional, disciplinary initiative in response to your work product as it is a personal intervention out of respect to your quality of life.”

Shiki looks into his eyes. He’s pleading, now. “Do you understand?”

Izaya forces himself to speak. “Yes.”

There’s a thumb that finds its way under his chin, tilting his head back so he’s forced to look into Shiki’s eyes. Izaya realizes his vision is blurred, the corners of his eyes watery. His breath catches at the intimacy of the act, how close Shiki’s face is to his and so suddenly; the older man’s expression is repentant, acknowledging the pain in Izaya’s crimson eyes and honestly demonstrating remorse for being the one to put it there.

“Get some rest,” Shiki says, letting Izaya go. He stands, taking one last glance at Izaya’s face. “Send me a message when you get back to your apartment.” 

And then he’s paying the tab for the both of them, thanking Vorona, and he’s gone, lost in the dreary gloom of the rain.

Izaya isn’t sure how long he sits there, processing. His body has warmed up next to the heater, but he suddenly feels cold again, every part of him numb. He pulls his shoulders back, tugging the sleeves of his coat over his hands in a futile effort to try and bring feeling back to his fingertips, and chokes back a sob. 

“Hey,” a tentative voice calls out. “Are you okay?” 

Izaya slowly turns his head to the speaker. It's a man, probably the same age as him. Tall—blonde—but unmistakably Japanese, with a handsome face for a delinquent; his pierced ears completely give him away. He’s wearing the same colored apron as Vorona, who’s absent from the cash register. 

“Yeah,” Izaya croaks, composing himself. He discretely rubs at his eyes. 

The man looks at him cautiously, most definitely uncomfortable and unsure of how to proceed. “Um… Was the food not good, or…”

Izaya can’t help the bubble of laughter that escapes him. “No, it was wonderful. My compliments to the chef.”

The busboy begins stacking up the plates and glasses, eyeing Izaya like he’s crazy. Then his face twists from an expression of judgement to one of confusion, slowly transforming into recognition. Izaya’s used to it, knows the process people go through when they realize he’s an anchor. “Hey, I know you. You’re… You’re Orihara. Orihara Izaya.”

Izaya forces himself to smile. He’s not in the mood. “People tell me I look like him all the time.”

The busboy scowls, impressively picking up the stack of dishes and cups with one hand. “You’re obviously him, asshole.” Izaya can’t help the sharp laugh that escapes him at the other’s profanity—he laughs more, seeing the blonde go red, realizing what he just said. 

“Shit. I mean... Fuck, you’re not fooling anyone,” he splutters, only making things worse. He mumbles something, running a hand through his bleached hair, and then gives up. “Don’t you recognize me?”

Izaya falters, incredulous. “Why would I? I’ve never met you before in my life.”

The busboy startles, genuinely offended, and then clicks his tongue in irritation. Without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks off back behind the counter. Izaya hears the clanging of dishes, the sound of the faucet being turned on. 

_Bizarre,_ Izaya thinks. It only cements the fact that he’s never coming back here again.

Just as he’s about to leave the café, he notices Shiki’s black umbrella leaning against the chair. His heart pounds, his chest aches, and the feeling of dread makes him weak at the knees.

Thoughtlessly, he takes it; he holds it tight against his chest as he walks home in the downpour, folding it ever-so-carefully when he gets home, leaving it to dry in the bathtub. Against his better judgement he texts Shiki.

He collapses into bed. Sleep evades him. 

His phone chimes twice.

_2:21 PM_

_I’m sorry._

_\- - - - -_

_9:47 PM_

_Good night, Izaya._

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah... It's been literal years since I've written for this website. I have no idea why a couple weeks ago I suddenly became obsessed with Durarara again, but I've consumed half of the existing Shizaya fics on this site (special shoutout to Twyd and tastewithouttalent for sustaining me with their writings--serious props, you both are goals). Decided to write one of my own despite my lack of skill and experience. Please go easy on me! 
> 
> Also important to note-- I know absolutely nothing about how news reporting works. Please do not destroy me if you see major factual inaccuracies.
> 
> I'm not sure how long this will be! I suck at planning things out. I also suck at keeping to schedules, but I'll try my best to update when I can.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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